


What Was and What Could Have Been

by Yalu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Community: love bingo, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Wakes & Funerals, family support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yalu/pseuds/Yalu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>Jessica's funeral.</p><p> <i>He hadn't wanted to go.</i></p><p> <br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	What Was and What Could Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> For [love_bingo](http://love-bingo.livejournal.com) Round Three. Prompt: Funeral.
> 
> Thanks to Trojie for beta reading.

He hadn't wanted to go. Dean made him. Dean had insisted that if they took off on the hunt right away then Sam would be down on the police list as a suspect, and that was the last thing they needed. So Sammy, he'd said, you have to suck it up, take a shower, and get out there. I'll even rent a monkey suit and go with you.

And he had, and Sam was grateful, because he's pretty sure he wouldn't have made it through the eulogy without Dean beside him. Jess' parents were there, and her brother, her cousins, grandparents... he couldn't remember who was who; he'd never seen any of them before.

_"You should come home with me for Thanksgiving – everyone's dying to meet you."_

_"I'd love to," he said, but hesitated. "What have you told them about me?"_

_"Only the worst," she said, and grinned._

He thinks the man with short curly hair was her father, because he'd shaken Sam's hand solemnly before taking his seat without a word. Two women had hugged him, and maybe one was her mother, but he didn't know. He didn't really look at them, or anyone, or anything but the picture. They'd used an older photo from some family gathering, maybe Christmas, back before she stopped straightening her hair (he loved her hair, the way it curled) and the whole time people were talking about her he'd just looked at it, met her eyes and pretended they were still real and could blink.

There was no coffin. There was nothing left of her to put in one. The firemen had got there pretty quickly so maybe some bone fragments were left, but nothing– nothing–

Sam curled in on himself, face-down on the bed. Across the room, Dean shook himself awake again.

Someone had asked Sam if he wanted to speak at the ceremony, a few days earlier when it was being arranged. He'd turned them down. He couldn't think what to say. Jess... couldn't be described in a few words. Brady had called her the sweetest person ever, but that wasn't enough, not nearly enough. She was so sharp, so quick, she could see right through him every time and she never judged him, never told him off, but never let him get away with anything either. She would stand there with her arms folded and not say anything, just letting him dig himself into a grave or talk himself around to her side – because, in the end, he always did.

_"I probably won't get it. I'm not that good."_

_She paused the DVD and looked right at him, folding her legs under her on the couch. When he didn't turn to her she tapped her nails loudly on the remote._

_"It's just, other people will be better, and there's a lot of applicants."_

_She just kept tapping, waiting. He shook his head._

_"All I mean is, I don't think we should get our hopes up. You'll get in. I might not."_

_He tried reaching for another cookie. She took the plate away. Finally, he sighed and turned to her, starting to smile._

_"Okay, there's a chance I might get the scholarship." She kept the cookies out of reach, trying to keep a smile off her face as, for once, his arms weren't long enough. He laughed and gave in. "A **good** chance."_

_Jess hit "play"._

Zach and Brady and little Becky had all sat together in the row behind Sam and Dean and the cousins. More friends and classmates were behind them, even a few teachers. Jess had been a good student.

Didn't matter now.

As they'd walked out of the church, Sam had looked around and wondered how Jess could have possibly known so many people. If he died, there'd only be Dad and Dean, maybe Bobby and Pastor Jim to see him off, and they'd burn him on a pyre wherever they happened to be at the time. Maybe Pastor Jim's church, if it was close.

If he died. Maybe this would kill him.

But not from the grief - from the _anger_ ; the anger that kept burning up his heart and his ribs and everything inside. It burned in his eyes and in the tears that he wiped off on his rented sleeves at the ceremony. The smell was in his nose, etched there – smoke and hair and skin and clothes. It was in his mouth and throat and choking him. It was in his heart.

It wasn't fair. They could have had so much, they were so close he could almost _see_ it – two lawyers, new graduates, they'd intern in different firms for a while and someday start their own, working together every day and going home together every night, home to a nice house with a dog and kids, and every so often Dad and Dean would visit and they'd never talk about hunting, and what could have been was so clear and sharp in his mind that it _hurt_.

_"I'm thinking New York."_

_He rolled over and kissed her collarbone, nuzzled her neck. "Why New York?"_

_She threaded her fingers through his hair and hooked her ankle round his knees. "It **snows** there," she replied in her 'Duh, Sam' voice. Then she jumped as he ticked her and swatted him right back. They tussled and he lost, and he never let her think it wasn't on purpose. She kissed him. "We could get an apartment. You know those little boxy things that everyone complains about but would still be bigger than this?"_

_He laughed. "You want that?"_

_"Maybe. Or maybe we should go for Beverly Hills and a massive garden. Or right on the coast down in Malibu."_

_Sam traced her cheekbone with his fingers, smiling. "You dream big, you know that, Jess?"_

_"Eh, you love me for it."_

He was glad he hadn't picked out a ring yet.

Sam shook and sucked in a breath, rattling his ribs and lungs as he tried not to cry. He curled up tighter in the blankets, sniffling and wiping his nose, wanting to sleep but knowing the nightmares were waiting. His eyes ached. He felt sick. He felt anger. He felt _hate_.

He didn't know what to do. He wanted to find the thing that did this to her, to Mom, he wanted to find it and kill it and rip it apart and make it _hurt_ the way he was hurting, make it scream and beg and cry and cut its throat and watch it bleed, wanted it to suffer like he suffered...

He wanted Jess back. He wanted yesterday. But there was nothing he could do to get them, only revenge, and deep down inside Sam knew even that was just a distraction, and when the thing was dead he'd still have this hole inside him, aching and cold and lonely.

But Dean was there with him, dealing with the police and going back to the apartment, getting Sam's stuff and renting their suits. He was there offering pizza and a beer – a whole pack of beer – and he never said anything about the tears or the shaking, just turned on a movie and plopped down next to Sam, hauling the spare blanket round their shoulders and threatening violence if he didn't share. He never said to man up or get over it, never offered empty platitudes, never tried to start a talk about Jess or 'how he was feeling'.

He was just _there_ , solid and steady, the same big brother who'd raised him. He never left.

He never would.


End file.
